Chapter 485: Reading It to Them

He Xiufen set the noodles down, the bowl scraping against the table.

"Eat first." She laid the chopsticks across the rim. "Come upstairs when you're done."

The noodles were tossed in scallion oil, the sheen floating on top of the broth. She ate with her head down. Halfway through, He Xiufen killed the stove, brought her own bowl over to sit across from her, and nudged the vinegar bottle toward her hand.

"Not a single question?" She tipped in a little vinegar.

"What's there to ask." He Xiufen lifted a chopstickful of noodles. "You sat in the close-relative row, I sat at the defense bench. The lines read out were the same."

The judgment was in her bag, square-cornered, unbent. Tang Guo's morning warning—"That paper, don't fold it"—she had followed exactly. Coming out of the court, she'd slipped it between two file folders and carried it back against her chest. The edges were still flat.

"I'll be downstairs this afternoon," He Xiufen said. "If you make a call, I'll be right by the stove. I'll hear anything from upstairs."

"I'll come down when I'm done."

Two p.m., second floor. Three desks in the outer office, hers by the window. The inner room's door stood half open, no one inside. She spread the judgment on the desk, one end weighted with a notebook, the other held flat under her palm, and read it through once to herself.

It didn't read smoothly. "The criminal judgment of the Chengnan District People's Court of Jiangzhou City against the original defendant Shen Qian in the case of obstructing testimony is hereby revoked"—that sentence was long, and she had to catch her breath in the middle. The second time she broke it apart, one phrase at a time, pausing after each.

Only two parts needed reading: the two rulings, and the reasoning before them. She pressed two faint marks into the paper's edge with her thumbnail, barely indenting it.

Pang Chunlai's number was in her notebook, a line written back in September, underlined. She dialed and propped the phone against the glass desk pad, screen up.

It rang three times.

"Lawyer Shen." His son answered.

"Is Uncle Pang there?"

"He is. I'm putting you on speaker. Dad, Lawyer Shen's on the phone."

A chair scraped against the floor on that end, then coughing, then a recovering breath. Chickens squawked in the yard, twice, then stopped.

"Lawyer Shen." The old man's voice came through the speaker, slow, dragging that mountain accent on the final syllable.

"Uncle Pang, I'm going to read you the words written on this paper," she said. "If you can't hear any line clearly, say so, and I'll read it again."

"Read."

"One: The criminal judgment of the Chengnan District People's Court of Jiangzhou City against the original defendant Shen Qian in the case of obstructing testimony is hereby revoked."

Silence on the other end.

"Two: The original defendant Shen Qian is not guilty."

Still no sound, only someone breathing near the mouthpiece, rising and falling.

"Read it slower," he said.

She paused, lifted the paper slightly, and started over from the top. This time she went even slower, breaking every sentence apart and letting each piece settle. When she reached the name "Shen Qian," she slowed down herself.

When she finished, there was still no sound. A chicken crowed once more.

"Uncle Pang?"

"That settles it, then." His voice was very quiet. He coughed twice after saying it. "So the things I said with this mouth of mine—they're written on the paper too?"

"They are. In the retrial findings section, it's written: the testimony of witness Pang Chunlai."

"I don't know many characters," he said. "I'll just hold on to those two lines you read. Got them."

She moved her fingers off the paper's edge. The spot she'd been pressing had started to curl slightly.

"Uncle Pang, one more thing." She said, "This paper isn't final today. If nobody appeals and nobody protests within ten days, only then is it settled."

"Ten days."

"The thirtieth doesn't count. Starting from the first, through the tenth."

A pause on the other end. His son murmured something nearby.

"Where's it written down?" he asked.

"In my notebook."

"Then when that day comes, let me know."

"I will."

"Lawyer Shen." The son took over, leaning closer to the phone. "My dad's been asking about this several times a day. After today's call, he probably won't be asking tonight."

"Have him get to bed early," she said. "I'll keep the paper safe."

The line went dead.

She sat without moving, smoothing the place she'd marked with her nail. It wouldn't lie flat. A thin layer of dust on the desk, that white sheet pinned beneath the glass desk pad.

The second call went to Chai Guizhi. It rang six times before anyone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Auntie Chai, it's Shen Zhixia."

"Little Shen." Aluminum basin clattering on the ground at her end, then running water. "Go ahead."

"The judgment came down today. I'll read it to you."

"Read."

She read it through. When she reached "Two: The original defendant Shen Qian is not guilty," she stopped and waited for the other end to speak.

That end was quiet for a while too. The water sound had stopped.

"I don't understand these things," Chai Guizhi said. "The words on that paper—I can't read a single one. If you say it's good, then it's good."

"Auntie Chai—"

"The first part sounded like a radio broadcast to me." She said, "But those last two lines, those I understood."

"Those two lines matter most," she said. "Everything else is just foundation for them."

"Mm." Chai Guizhi set the basin down and let out a breath. "The water in that ditch is so clear these last two days you can see the stones at the bottom. Xiaoyu stands there watching it after school."

"Don't let him go down to the ditch alone."

"I'm watching him." Chai Guizhi said, "This paper business—should I tell Xiaoyu or not?"

"Tell him." She said, "Just like what was said in November—that bad thing, people found out what it was."

"Alright. If he asks what comes after?"

"What comes after is this paper. He can read it himself when he grows up."

Chai Guizhi made a sound of agreement, then asked: "Those people from the mountain—are they coming back to the village?"

"That I don't know," she said. "I'm looking into what's on the paper. What's off the paper isn't mine to answer."

"Fine. You're busy." Before hanging up, Chai Guizhi added: "Your voice is hoarse. Drink some water."

The third call went to Cen Hong. She picked up on the second ring, a "beep" from the barcode scanner first.

"Lawyer Shen."

"Busy with packages?"

"Just finished scanning a cartload." Plastic film crinkling at her end. "Give me a second, I'll go upstairs to my mom's."

"I want to read the words to her."

"She's hard of hearing, and her back molars have been aching these two days—her speech whistles." Cen Hong said, "Speak up. I'm putting you on speaker."

The sound of a roll-up shutter coming down, footsteps on concrete, entering a building, echoes in the stairwell, floor after floor.

"I'm here." Cen Hong said, "Mom, it's Lawyer Shen. She's going to read you what's on the paper. Sit down. Don't stand."

Someone sat on the other end, a wooden chair creaking. The old woman's breathing came right up against the receiver, steady.

"Auntie Wang." She began, raising the phone slightly. "I'll read. You listen."

She read the reasoning section slowly, pausing at the key points. When she reached "The original re-test report stored in the separate case file of the Chengbei District People's Court, upon forensic examination, bears a seal consistent with the seal specimen on record from that testing center for the year in question, and the signature is in the hand of the center's former director himself," she stopped.

"Auntie Wang, did you hear that?"

"He signed it." The old woman's voice came through, trembling, but every word distinct.

"Yes. The paper says: he signed it."

"He signed it." She said it again, her voice dropping. "Back then he went to the old building every day. I told him to stop going, said it was cold up there. He said there were things kept there that needed watching."

The room was quiet. Cen Hong said softly beside her: "Mom, sit down to talk."

"I can't read," Auntie Wang said. "All these years, when anyone asked me what he did out there, I couldn't say. All I knew was he never stole, never robbed."

"I know."

"He told our daughter there was something under the cabinet—don't touch it." She said, "I brought that thing home once, kept it two days, then carried it back. What's inside it, I've never looked, not to this day."

She switched the phone to her other hand and pressed the page flat.

"Auntie Wang, there's one more line on the paper: the conclusion of the original document matches the one my father submitted back then."

"That line I don't understand," the old woman said. "You tell me—is it good or bad."

"It's good." She said, "The one he signed was genuine. There was no mistake."

A long silence on the other end. Cen Hong moved the phone away and walked a couple of steps, speaking low: "Lawyer Shen, she can't get the words out. Wait a moment."

She held the phone and waited, hearing the sound of tissues being pulled, and one long exhale. After a while Cen Hong came back: "She wants you to read it again from the beginning. Once you've read it through, she'll be at ease."

She straightened the judgment again and began from the spot marked by her nail, reading through to the two rulings without missing a word. When she finished, the old woman said only: "That's good, then."

The call ended. It was past three. She got up and stood by the window for a while. Cars passed one after another on the street below. Someone dragged out a long call, collecting scrap.

Back at the desk, she opened that group chat on her phone. Her finger hovered over the input box, then she sent a single line:

Verdict's in. Not guilty.

Under that message, a little over a minute later, Ma Jianjun replied: Good.

After that, two more people replied "Received," and then nothing. She turned the phone face-down on the desk; light leaked from its edges.

Three-twenty, she went downstairs. The exhaust fan over the stove was on. He Xiufen stood in front of the wok, oil spatters on her apron.

"Done?"

"Three calls, one group chat."

"Everyone got to hear it?"

"Uncle Pang had me read it twice—he said 'That settles it.' Auntie Chai said she couldn't read the words, and I said it was good, and she believed it. Auntie Wang said 'He signed it.'" She paused. "I also told Uncle Pang about the ten days."

He Xiufen turned the flame down and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "I spent half my life reading petitions in court," she said. "When you finish reading them, nothing stays in anyone's ears. Those three calls you made today did more than my entire career."

"Director He—"

"Don't deflect." He Xiufen clapped the lid on the pot. "Reading the paper to people—what matters is knowing who's been waiting for that line."

She stood at the foot of the stairs with a glass of water, not heading back up. It was hot under the exhaust fan. She stood there a while, finished the water.

Seven stops home on the bus. It wasn't crowded. She held her bag in her lap and didn't look out the window the whole way. She got in at seven-thirty. Zhi'an was already doing homework at the table; he looked up at the sound of the door: "Sis, how many calls did you make today?"

"Three, plus one group chat."

"Who'd you call?"

"Uncle Pang in Baixi Village, Auntie Chai in Qingshi Village, and Cen Hong over in Chengbei—Auntie Wang there too."

"Should I tell anyone?"

"No one's asking you to tell them." She set her bag on the cabinet. "Do your homework."

Zhi'an put his pen down, then picked it up again: "So where are we keeping that paper of ours?"

"Under the bed."

Nine p.m. She'd put the bowls away in the kitchen and dried her hands, then dragged the petition bag out from under the bed. Bag-side facing up, spread across her knees, she read the six lines top to bottom: Shen Qian; petition; Shen Zhixia, May 9; submitted to Jiangzhou Intermediate Court, May 19; June 18, retrieval application, filed; August 5, retrial decision, Chengdong District Court.

The drawer opened. The pen was inside, the black-ink one. This time she took it out, pulled off the cap, and breathed once on the nib.

She laid the bag flat on the desk, ran her finger down past the last line, and put pen to paper at the very bottom:

November 30, retrial judgment, Chengdong District Court.

When she finished, she lifted the pen and studied the line, waiting for the ink to dry. The characters landed on the loosest part of the bag's surface; the nib bit into the grain of the paper, stroke by stroke.

The judgment came out of her bag, edges still flat. She placed it inside, on top of the retrial decision.

Someone was standing by the inner-room door. Zhi'an, holding his homework book to his chest, watching her fold the bag's opening twice.

"Sis."

"Mm."

"Does the bag still go under the bed?"

"Under the bed."

"Will we take it out again?"

"We'll take it out."

He hugged the homework book a little higher and went back inside.

She pressed the bag's opening flat, hand resting on its surface. Below the seven lines there was still a finger's width of empty space. She didn't write anything more.